We often imagine violence as something loud, visible, and external — a gunshot, a slap, a scream. But there exists another kind of violence, quieter and far more insidious, that seeps into the folds of everyday life. It’s the violence we inflict upon ourselves when we internalize the world’s gaze — when we allow other people’s opinions, expectations, and definitions of “success” or “peace” to rewrite the script of our lives.
This violence does not draw blood. It drains vitality. It comes disguised as discipline, perfection, politeness, or self-control. It is the violence of shrinking to fit, of choosing silence to avoid conflict, of striving endlessly to meet invisible standards that promise worth but deliver exhaustion. This poem emerges from that realization — that violence is not only what the world does to us, but also what we do to ourselves in the name of peace, perfection, and belonging. It’s about the inner wars that wear gentle faces, the quiet murders we commit in the name of calm.
Read this as an act of reclaiming tenderness — a reminder that life, in all its imperfections, is meant to be lived, not managed.
Violence is what we do to ourselves
when we let others define our worth —
seeing our face through borrowed eyes,
judging our soul by their borrowed laws.
Each time you let criticism
seep beneath your skin,
and retreat into the warmth
of that quiet, soothing cave—
know this: you are dimming your own flame,
murdering your spirit
in the name of peace.
That, too, is violence—
draped in soft, deceptive hues.
Life is but a fleeting breath—
its beginning and end
beyond our grasp.
All we own is this fragile pause
between two silences—
to dream, to love, to care,
to craft new meanings
out of borrowed time.
Perfection is a myth we kneel before,
failure — only a mirror held by others,
efficiency — a convenient fiction.
No roles are ever tailor-made
to fit one, and refuse another.
When you chase this illusion,
you bleed yourself dry,
choke your own song,
and die a little —
for someone else’s comfort.
Never snatch, never steal —
but never turn away
from what life brings unbidden.
It is the cosmos calling you
to step beyond the known,
to taste life anew —
its bitter, its sour, its sweetness too.
What matters is not perfection,
but the honest labour of your hands,
the courage to keep learning,
to stay porous to the new.
Amid the chaos of additions, deletions,
and uninvited opinions —
just do what you can,
as best as you can,
and leave the rest
to time, to memory, to history.
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